Deeper In Debt
by Lexiphane
Summary: Shilo just wants to forget and Graverobber can make that happen for her. For a price. Post!Opera
1. Chapter 1

"Can you make me forget?" her voice is not exactly girlish, Graverobber has always noted that about her. It's a little too low, too rich and raw at the edges. It makes her infinitely better as far as he cares. He has always been so tragically bored by all of that perfection. When you can buy a perfect body, perfect skin, perfect eyes what exactly is the beauty in all of that boring? Shilo Wallace will likely never bore him.

"Kid, my Z is top of the line, the best," he puts on an act of being offended by the question, puffs his chest out, tilts his chin up. It's been weeks since the final Opera, looks about as long since she last slept. And he isn't talking about that restless half-sleep that too often accompanies an empty heart. Zydrate can help with that. Her eyes are dark, inky and hollow. Life does that to a girl and the Zydrate will help with that too. He turns his attention away from the waif making her way to him through the alley to take money from what amounts to a boy barely thinking about manhood and presses the zydrate gun against his skin.

When he looks up again she is closer and he wriggles himself away from grasping hands, desperate eyes. His hands spread, coat catches in a fortunate wind. The edges of his eyes crinkle when he smiles and the look says it all. _C'mon kid_, his head cocks back, it's a challenge, _let's put on a show._

Because he always loves making a spectacle.

"I don't have any money," she tells him and her voice is dull underneath, like her eyes. There is a here that follows the words, hovers unsaid behind her lips. Shilo Wallace is the sole benefactor of the best Repo Man there is, or rather, was. Now, he's a pusher, it is - how does he put this - his livelihood to con kids like her into their first hit, their first oblivion and then keep them begging. And yet, and somehow, his gut twists at the thought of this particular kid under his needle. Maybe it's just that she's been through so fucking much already, enough to give her the right to want the Z, anyone could understand wanting a little nothing after that opera.

Still, this is his livelihood he's talking about and Graverobber is always looking out for number one.

"First hit's free," he tips his head to one side, curtain of rainbow hair sliding around his shoulders, catching in the fur at his throat.

"I don't," she falters, almost stumbles on stockinged legs and her fingers twist around the strap of her bag. Her shoulders curl in and Graverobber watches the weight of death and _all alone in the world_ push her down. Her wig is askew. Still her lip curls back she shakes her head, her wig settles back where it ought to be, "I don't owe people money for my organs or my drugs."

Big talk, big brave words past dry chapped lips and he wants to applaud. Atta girl. Atta baby. Bravest little pretend girl, all doll parts held together by sheer stubbornness.

He doesn't turn, not quite, just flicks his eyes back to his writhing masses - he's a back alley priest with the most devoted flock anyone could ever ask for - and settles. His hands fold into his pockets and he takes a step towards her, bends at the shoulder so that his cheek presses against her bought and paid for hair. He bares his teeth in a smile that is wasted because she is staring at his shoulder anyway.

"We go back, kid, you and I," he rubs his cheek against the fine black hair and breathes in, "you can pay me another way."

Her head jerks, something like a nod and Graverobber sighs. Normally the doll parts pretending to be girls don't bother him. It's their own damn fault, under the knife, under the pimp, under their own damn mistakes. And yet, and somehow, he likes her scrawny hide, sees little insect limbs and thinks her strangely graceful. He was almost hoping that she'd turn him down, get stuck in all the things dad surely told her about men like him and stay away.

He supposes that the prettiest bugs do end up on some needle or another. He laughs at his own joke and takes a dance step around her body out of his alley. He can feel the shadow of her at his back as he strolls - leisurely because he's in no hurry to be anywhere when he's not being chased - but he's still surprised when frail fingers find the edge of his wrist where his hand tucks into his pocket and his sleeve has ridden up. Her fingers press against the pulse there and by the time they reach the apartment he is calling home sweet these days he has forgotten which heartbeat is his own.

They reach his doorway, warped, paint peeling, before his fingers find hers and her hand is cold after the warmth of his pocket. He lets their hands swing when they step into the demi dark of his apartment and her face is cast into stark shadows. Zydrate vials are strewn, abandoned on the cardboard box that is his coffee table. She looks pretty in blue and blue will probably look pretty in her. This time. Next time. A few times after that too.

Not always though. It never stays pretty.

He lets her linger at the edge of the hall as he steps into the glow of the drugs in his living room - if one can call the echoingly empty, forlorn space a living anything - and his coat stays in a graceless pile where he leaves it by her feet. Life has not been easy on his body and he knows that there are scars when he pulls his shirt up over his head. It is lost somewhere behind the couch with a long limbed toss of one hand. And then he gasps, startled by cold fingers on old scars.

Brave little bug.

Her pulse flutters in her mouth, a trapped bird when he kisses her and her fingers wind into his hair. Sweet thing, honey sweet and he wants to feed at her mouth. His hands catch on her arms and they stumble together, tumble, lose it, fall into the torn upholstery of his couch, her skirt working up around her thighs. One of his legs grinds down against her and she gives a full body shudder that is better than he expected. Somewhere in the hands and nails and - holy fucking hell, where'd a bit like her learn this shit - teeth her wig is lost amongst the tossed away pile of their clothes and he rubs his cheek against her scalp. A few days of stubble scratch against a few weeks of stubble and he snickers, biting at the shell of her ear. The not-quite-chemo baby.

She's a virgin of course. Whines with it, soft little keen that makes him - and he's a bad, bad man for it - shudder with the effort of staying still for the seconds, eons that she needs to settle, to adjust to him. It's not that she rocks up against him that says it's alright to start moving again, not quite her little murmur but rather teeth on his throat, on his shoulder.

Desperate and she's keening again, different now but no less aching.

It's awkward at times, spills him laughing into the soft of her throat, the curve of her breast. Her rhythm isn't quite right and her hands flutter about, unsure as to exactly where they ought to settle. Afterward, just moments after tossing the condom in the general direction of his trashcan, with a lithe little body curled into him on the couch he thinks he could maybe stay here for a while, enjoy the sort of domestics but the girl is moving again. Gawky limbs of hers rub against his sweaty skin as she stumbles up, moves like she's sore.

"You owe me," her voice is husky, not just raw but torn at the edges from the moments he brought her screaming. He gives her the laziest of smiles, unphased by his own nakedness as she stomps into her boots, buttons the very last little pearl button on her blouse. She watches him then, in silent contemplation perhaps before she lets herself out of the apartment, wig settled in place. Prim little bug undone by an edge of teeth.

The slam of the door echoes in the empty apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

She lets him fuck her the next time sees her. He's cognizant – his favourite replacement for aware – that this is just fucking.

Shilo is waiting for him in one of his very favourite alleys, perched on the hood of someone's car. Her legs fall apart, on either side of a smashed in headlight and her spine bows, she bends in on herself so that she can press her hands against layers of silk. She holds the skirt down between her legs because deep down she is still Shilo Wallace. It looks like she's gotten at least a few hours of sleep, real sleep. Sleep that is deep and warm, the sort that leaves a cat's purr of contentment in your chest after only a few hours.

Grave robber is reminded, viscerally, of the mermaids – sea goddess stand ins – that adorned the front of ships. Back in the day. Back when 's's were 'f's and a man could hardly be blamed for confusing sex and fucking. There's enough trouble as it is without letting the letters get all muddled too. It brings him back to the Ancient Mariner and his rime. Graverobber considers the potential that he himself is the mariner, the salty dog sea stoned and tormented. More likely he's the albatross and sometime very soon he's going to bleed for flirting with disaster like he is. Danger in kitten heels.

He thinks maybe she's here for the drug he owes her. Mourns that and not just because someone else would pay cold cash for the same hit. So he switches genres . He realizes, laggingly, that he shouldn't be spending this much time with the Librarian – no matter how clever she is or how much he enjoys and intelligent conversation – she leaves bits of old wisdom floating in his brain. His hand twitches at his side like a gun slinger and a newspaper skittering over the trash strewn alley becomes stereotype tumble weed of Old West drama. He's a cowboy looking to right a wrong, dole out a little bit of vengeance. Sun baked dignity. In a way, he thinks, glowing her up is a slow acting death sentence – the sun baked dignity fades, he's wearing white face powder, after all. He's a business man, not an idiot, and he knows what his product does.

Her little hands find his jacket, make a handle out of red faux fur and she drags him to her mouth. He waits on it, expects her to pull back, go for the drug but the moment never comes. He lets his hands find her skin, fingers finding the curve of her throat, the slide of her jaw and the kiss goes messy – how he likes it, thanks much – all teeth and tongues. Hard edges and spit slick.

"Building a line of credit," she gasps, his hands finding the edges of her panties. They catch at the top of her boots as he pulls them down and he tucks them surreptitiously into a deep pocket. He's not going to let her in on that particular quirk. He tips her back, presses her down on cold, hard metal and disappears under silk and crinoline. Her body shudders when his tongue touches her and it is its own reward.

He goes back to his mermaid and slash or sea goddess abstract and articulates it on her hyper sensitized skin. The Librarian would be so proud. He goes, goes downtown and likes it. Tastes her until she is storming, whipped into a whirl pool, hurricane of touch and crashes on the shores.

He is taking his metaphor too far.

He leaves the metaphor and moves up to kiss her. The enthusiasm with which she licks herself off his teeth splinters him and there is no more preamble. She is almost too hot and slick as a testament to his elocution – that is to say, he would live with his face between a woman's legs if he could. The moment is brief, he can't quite control himself when she mewls like that, when her little hands find purchase in his hair and she keens. He turns her hurricane again only because he body is still on edge.

Her fingers comb his hair while he catches his breath against her throat. She smells like girl sweat and him. Shilo pets him in smooth strokes of her hand and he is struck one again by how alright he is – how not terrified he is – by the prospect of her sticking around. Must be a poisonous bug, he decides but resigns himself to it and stays where he is for the eons, lifetimes – heart beats, _seconds_ – it takes for some asshole to start clapping.

No one important, a cursory glance over his shoulder is enough to assure him of that. Just a regular. A businessman still managing to balance drugs and work, still early in his death spiral. A man with time enough to save himself if he heeds the warning signs. iAbandon hope/i Graverobber sees neon in zydrate blue, little bugs crawling over buzzing, glowing letters iall ye who enter here/i. First hit's still free. He makes a show of buttoning his pants, makes a show of kissing her one last time and goes to work.

Though he does not turn to watch her – check on her – he can feel her eyes on him, feel the way she lounges on the hood of the car, just watching. Somewhere in the last few moments of his night – early morning and god damn is that the sun? – she makes herself scarce. When he is ready to go home, when he is entertaining thoughts of asking her to come with him and with the words already teasing the edges of his teeth she is no where to be found.

He resolves to go home. Goes to the library instead and has a cup of chamomile tea. The Librarian laughs when he tells his tale and suggests another book.


End file.
